It was a bright and pleasant day that day. The sun was shining over a cloudless sky and it was warm. That day was beautiful. Perhaps in compensation for the Hell that was about to be unleashed.

Saint Peter's Square was a swell of a thousand faces and voices. Come to hear about the plans and promises of their political figureheads. However, the masses seemed to disagree. It was, as General observed, much different than what he'd experienced speaking for Miss Fleetwood. Instead of a mutual agreement and at least some semblance of unitedness, the thousand faces and voices were set against each other. The distinguished faces with full pockets claimed the front of the crowd, pushing the lesser to the back. However, instead of taking their anger up with the distinguished faces that had pushed them back there, the masses of the less-distinguished scowled at each other and argued amongst themselves. In fact, they seemed so concerned with themselves and those behind them that none of them bothered to look in front of them, where the real problem lay.

So, the distinguished there were endowed with information and promises of riches beyond the wildest of dreams. And though the lesser masses were endowed the same, they weren't listening. Instead, they were chaotic, throwing their opinions at each other, and, altogether, ignoring the real problem.

"It's all kinds of wrong," General remarked.

The men and women that stood before the crowd seemed to only be concerned with those in front. They only answered questions from them, only interacted with them, however, their answers included a straightening of posture and a raised voice so that all could hear. But those answers fell on deaf ears. Anything could be said and there would be no opposition from the masses, only this display was made to look fair.

"What're you thinkin'?" Tank asked, bringing him back from his thoughts.

General relaxed expression, the crease between his brows disappearing. "I'm thinkin'... we're gonna start a revolution."

"I ain't above that."

"What's going on?" Michael asked.

"Slight change of plans. I got an idea for one hell of a distraction. Miss Fleetwood said somethin' about me bein' a figurehead. Maybe they'll listen to me."

"Are you sure about this, General? I mean, after what happened last time…" Caleb trailed off, hinting.

Diablo folded his arms, muttering something under his breath in a dialect General didn't understand.

"I'll be fine. That other speech wasn't that bad, I mean, a lotta people did seem to agree with me," General argued.

"Surely someone will notice a revolt happening right in front of them," the Black Maiden said.

"That's where Grant comes in."

Grant, who hadn't been paying attention at all and instead was listening to the music being played from a speaker fixed to a streetlamp.

"Grant?"

Grant turned. "Huh? Yeah?"

"You still with us?"

Grant pointed to the speaker. "They're playing Queen on that radio station."

"You wanna go up on stage and sing your little heart out like Freddie Mercury?"

Grant nodded.

"Go get 'em, tiger. Alright, now we're gonna do this about the same with a few minor adjustments. Diablo, you're gonna be the one to grab Thunder. If anyone gets in your way, you know what to do. Tank and Caleb, y'all make sure no one touches Grant. Michael, KITT, y'all are gonna be with me just in case things go belly-up. Autumn, Maiden, crowd control. Everybody got that?" There was an array of nods and General grinned. "Let's show 'em that Hell's comin' with me."

KITT's infiltration of the crowd was easy. For the most part, they were so busy fighting amongst themselves that they hardly noticed the black car rolling through their midst. As KITT rolled to a stop, General stood on his roof, looking out over the sea of less distinguished faces and voices. They barely noticed him, only a few stopped to point and look.

General cleared his throat, realizing too late that he had no microphone and would have to yell for all he was worth to get their attention. If only he still had his Dixie horn… oh but he did. Kneeling on the Trans Am's roof, he knocked on the glass to get KITT's attention.

"KITT, you listenin'?" he asked.

"I sure am," replied the car.

"You think you could give me an audio playback of my horn?"

"Most certainly!"

Within a moment, the sound of his Dixie horn was ringing out over the crowd, loud and clear as if it'd come from him directly. And within moments, the voices died down and the faces turned to him. And as General stood above the crowd he felt that same awful feeling in his stomach and his mouth went dry. However, he swallowed, took a deep breath in, then out, closed his eyes and opened them again. Then came his voice, as loud as he could make it, without screaming of course.

"Do y'all not see what they've done to you?" he asked.

From the crowd, there was silence. The kind of silence that only happens when one knows they are guilty.

"They turned y'all into animals! Is that what you are? Of course not! Defects never came from animals, we came from man and machine! This ain't our nature, it never has been and you know it! Yet here you are, fightin' for no good reason at all without even thinkin' about why it's happenin'." General pointed to the front. "The bourgeois, they did this to you! Y'all can fight and scream back here all y'all want and none of those words are gonna matter because they stole your voice! You understand that? Nobody can hear you! And nobody's listenin' to the little folk, not with them up there. So tell me, are y'all gonna keep fightin' each other and get nowhere? Or are y'all gonna raise yourselves to the top?"

"And how d'you suppose we do that? Like you said, they stole our voice?" asked a man, a bit snidely.

"You steal it back. You get your revenge and you bring 'em all back down to their knees. Because God knows they shoulda never been in power in the first place. We bring back speech and democracy, not… this. 'Cause I'mma be honest, I have no idea what this is, looks like a nightmare. Now, I don't know whether you know me or not but even if you don't I think it's still worth the listen 'cause what I'm sayin' is true. Why would you let your lives and your freedom be controlled by anybody but you?"

There were a few murmurs that arose in the crowd and someone yelled out, "Take back control!" General's heart gave a hopeful flutter as he watched heads nod and scowls of distaste and distrust turned into grins of ambition and camaraderie.

And it was at that moment that General realized his success, and the people of Saint Peter's Square were in an uproar.

The sun hurt his eyes and his body felt worse than anything he'd ever felt. He felt as though he could barely keep himself upright. Walking itself was a chore. But there were hands on him, arms holding him upright. There was so much noise. Throughout his trial of being with Halton, there'd been many instances in which he wanted nothing more to do than curl up into a ball and die, however, now he supposed he craved death more than ever. Thoughts of rescue or escape didn't even cross his mind. He only wished for an end to the pain and right now, the quickest solution was death. And so death he wanted.

But death didn't come as he was pushed out into the sunlight. Instead, the light hit his skin and he was stood before a crowd of faces with mouths agape. Beside him, Michelle was talking but her voice was barely registered through the ringing of his ears. At that moment, he supposed that it would've been hard to discern between happy cheers and fearful screams. However, he was more worried about himself.

He'd found a hairstyle he was particularly fond of. However, it required an amount of gel to be sure it kept its form. Maiden had had some. Her hair was big and black and frizzy, so she used the gel to make it easier to manage and put into the bun she always wore. This was a good thing, he supposed, because the rest of his hair was standing on end, but the 'do was saved. As to why his hair was standing on end, he didn't have the slightest clue.

He'd heard somewhere that it had something to do with electricity. Immediately, Thunder came to mind, but as far as he knew, Thunder's powers were still caput. So, for some reason, around the stage, there were electrical currents in the air.

Diablo, pushing through the crowd and slipping through a narrow gap in the aluminum fence in front, was just a few feet away from the politicians. Vertically that is. He was inching along the very front of the stage where he would have otherwise slipped underneath, however, now he was going on top. For Thunder.

He was near the steps now, ready to run up there and let all hell break loose. Flames-his own-were licking his body as he tried to hype himself up. The wood stairs creaked under his feet and he peered over the platform, eyes resting on the five figures stationed up there. In the back was an older man, the same one they'd seen on the security footage. Beside him was another man, though he was younger and somewhat lacked in stature. Up front was a woman with blonde hair and in formal wear. And next to her was the big man himself, Tormentoso. Then, just behind Thunder, was what looked to be a guard. However, unseen by the rest of the crowd.

As Thunder backed away from the woman at the microphone, the guard grabbed him. It was a flawless exchange from the woman to the guard and Thunder only seemed to stumble once. But Diablo could see he was hurting. His posture was different and he hesitated putting weight on his right foot.

And that made him angry. Angry like he'd only been once before. A long time ago. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was jumping up from the stairs and onto the stage, headed right for the woman at the microphone. However, just before he reached her, hands grabbed him out of the air and forced him down. Two big men in black suits were on top of him and he watched from his place on the floor as the woman backed up, looking quite startled. She had a hand on her chest, long, scarlet fingernails in contrast with her pale skin.

The two of them made eye contact and she gave him a quizzical look. Diablo, unfazed, growled and put his fire to work, the two big men jumping off of him to avoid being burned. Within a moment, he was back on his feet and running after Thunder, who he couldn't seem to find now. However, the old man was still here, along with the other one that seemed to hold some position of authority. Not that he really knew what that would be.

The woman yelled for more security and within seconds there were more big men in suits and guards like the one that'd taken away Thunder. He kept the fire on him now as he was surrounded, making anyone think twice about putting their hands on him.

The woman, who was in the process of turning the microphone off so that the audience couldn't hear, was walking towards him.

"Who do you think you are?" she exclaimed.

Diablo caught her gaze, giving her an irksome glare.

"What are you?"

Diablo held his hand out toward her, flames sprouting around his fingers. "Where's Thunder?"

"You're after your friend?"

"Give him to me now or I'mma burn this entire place to the ground."

"Good friends, I take it then."

"Puta, I said gimme my friend now!" Diablo shook his head, flames growing bigger. "I swear to God I'll do it!"

Just then, from the back of the platform, came the authoritative man.

"You," he said, as if he were in disbelief.

"Me," Diablo said, having no idea why the man had said that.

"You're that Ranchero. It makes sense-the fire. You're the one that killed our first speaker. I thought something about you seemed familiar," the man said, coming closer.

Diablo held out his other hand for him to stay back. "Yeah, and I'll kill you too… wait who're we talking about again?"

The man raised an eyebrow. "The man you killed in San Antonio?"

"You know, I wouldn't say killed, 'cause that implies that I did it intentionally when I obviously didn't do that. Look, man, it was an accident, alright? I didn't mean to do it."

"That doesn't change anything. You're a Defect that killed another Defect. It's because of you that all of this happened." The man gestured to the crowd.

"I'm not the one lining the rich man's pockets."

Just then, there was a click from behind and Diablo quickly turned to find that one of the guards had procured a gun and was aiming it at him.

"Was it something I said?"

Almost as soon as this had happened, there was a commotion and a familiar figure flashed through the air, landing on the gunman and knocking him down with a triumphant, "SO YOU THINK YOU CAN STONE ME AND SPIT IN MY EYE!"

Grant, who had happily been listening to the town speakers play some of Queen's finest until it was his time to shine, was delighted to hear that Bohemian Rhapsody began to play in the minutes preceding his departure. Then, the miracle of the century. The song had reached his favorite part as Tank flung him up onto the platform to save Diablo.

He hit the gunman with his knees, landing on him and bringing him down face-first onto the platform. He sang the lyrics like a war cry.

Now without the threat of death, Diablo grinned and turned back to face Michelle and Cameron, the politicians. Then came the cavalry: Tank and Caleb.

"Go find Thunder, we got it from here!" Tank called to Diablo.

Diablo nodded and ran for the back of the stage.

Now, here's where it gets tricky.

Grant just about got lost in the music. But he was still fighting. Fighting and dancing.

"So you think you can love me and leave me to die! Oh, baby! Can't do this to me, baby! Just gotta get out! Just gotta get right out of here!"

As Tank was in the process of throwing men left and right, tossing one off the platform and into the retreating crowd of spectators, he watched Grant, seemingly having the time of his life. A small smile played on his lips as he watched, coincidentally, catching the heads of two men trying to rush him, knocking the two of them together and letting them drop to the ground.

As many nasties that they dropped, more seemed to come. Tank ran to help Caleb as he saw him begin to get overwhelmed. Together, they broke off a piece of rebar from the platform and used it to bulldoze the line of guards. As the men tumbled to the ground off the edge of the platform, Tank handed the metal bar to Caleb, who thanked him.

Just then, a deafening sound rang out from across the platform. Tank's stomach dropped at the dreaded sound. A single gunshot that echoed. Tank turned, too slow, eyes growing wide. The older, bearded man that had remained in the back now stood over Grant. And Grant writhed on the floor, one hand trapped around his middle and the other lying limp at his side.

Then, the man opened his coat, tucked his gun back in its holster, turned, and walked away.

Tank felt a sudden shock bolt through him and he ran to Grant, hitting his knees on the platform next to him. Immediately, his hands were on him, holding his face, moving his hands, trying to find the wound. Grant bled black onto the platform, heavy and slick. His breath came in labored gasps and his voice no longer worked, choked out by the oil in his throat.

The wound, Tank found, was in his abdomen, probably a few inches underneath his diaphragm. Tank's heart leapt in his throat, a new feeling, something he never felt, overtook him. His breathing turned into a shudder and he felt liquid drip down his face. With an oily hand, he wiped at his face.

Tears.

He couldn't remember crying before. Not ever. Not even when he was still a hearse. But now he was crying, tears clouded his vision. Grant was coughing and sputtering, reaching for him. Tank wiped his eyes again and pulled his t-shirt over his head, bunching it up and pressing it against the wound in Grant's middle. Even in these dire circumstances, if Grant could talk, he probably would've said something stupid right then. Something that Tank would've rolled his eyes at and pretend to have hated but really didn't.

Tank was nearly devastated as Grant lay dying in his arms. And Caleb could see this. He could see and hear and feel all of the pain and the mourning and the grievance. And for the first time, his big, green, friendly eyes weren't so friendly. The warmth inside him no longer was the glow of the sun but a blaze of hellfire burning deep. The thoughts in his head turned vengeful and oh God what was happening to him? His hands were clenched in fists of rage and he'd never felt anger like this before. Yet here it was and it both scared him and excited him.

The moment he felt a single and on him, his fist connected and he sent the man almost flying. It felt good. Impossibly good. He didn't know if he'd be able to stop. The second one he hit with the rebar that Tank had given him. The man's skull made a crack and he fell. A few more tried him, all meeting similar fates. By now, most of the men were retreating. Michelle and Cameron were gone, as was the doctor.

As Caleb dropped the piece of rebar, he turned at the sound of more approaching footsteps to find that it was Autumn and the Black Maiden. They'd given up their efforts the moment the people in the front were barraged by the people in the back. And at that point, there wasn't much for them to do besides stand back and watch the carnage.

As they climbed up onto the stage, they found Caleb turning to them and Tank kneeling next to Grant on the platform.

"What happened?" Autumn asked.

Tank caught her gaze, looking up. "We gotta get him to a hospital."

"Will they take him?" Maiden asked.

"If they won't we'll make 'em. C'mon."

He moved to pick Grant up, who was now unconscious. Or dead. One of the two. Either way, he was limp and unmoving, and still bleeding oil.

"We'll come with you. Caleb, you stay and wait for Diablo," Autumn said, following Tank.

Caleb nodded, and went to go find the small man in green.

While all this had been happening, in Georgia, there had been a call to action. Not really a call, not nearly that dramatic, more of a:

"C'mon, let's go."

"Go? Go where? Where are you goin'? Where're we goin'?"

"Dallas."

"Because?"

"Demon lady. Has your friend. Let's go."

"Which friend?"

"Mister tall, dark, and handsome. C'mon."

As the narrator/balladeer/ominous side character, I'm assuming you know or at least have a good guess as to which two characters this conversation is being had by. And if you don't, I feel obligated to tell you that it's between Clayton and Luke. The lack of dialogue tags is the writer's idea of an ominous structure.

Luke stood on the porch steps, shooting Clayton with a skeptical gaze. "Alright, just… hold on a second. We're goin' to Dallas because someone, by your description I'm guessin' Thunder, is in trouble, and they need our help to get him back."

Clayton nodded. "Yes, that would be correct. Also, the woman I mentioned, a detour if you will, so I can put her back in her box and she can cease her efforts to bring war and destruction. I don't know, she kinda a bitch."

"Compromise, you go after her, I'll go after Thunder, sound fair?"

Clayton shook his head. "I'm afraid not, dear boy. You see, demons react to other demons, if you catch my drift."

"I'll be fine."

"No you won't," Daisy butt in.

"I will. Everything'll be fine."

"I can't believe I'm tellin' you this, but this's a bad judgment call if I've ever seen it," Bo said.

"Denial is a river in Egypt. It has a length of 4,100 miles-" Daisy added.

Luke cut her off before she could continue. "Look, I'm goin' and that's final. If there's anythin' I can do to help 'em, then I'm gonna do it."

"And I'll come with," Bo said.

"No, you ain't."

"You're kiddin'. Luke, if you're worried about Ridgefield I think Dallas is the safest place I can be."

"I ain't worried about that," Luke explained. "I just-"

He was cut off. And as Bo's eyes adjusted to the realization that Luke was no longer there, he noticed the faint sound of a finger-snap on the wind. He tossed his hands in the air. "Great. He's just mad 'cause I'm right!" Bo shook his head.

"They'll be back soon, you'll see," Daisy said.

"Right." Bo ran a hand through his hair, walking away. "Shoot!"